Hamlet’s Got Ninety-Nine Problems and Needs Professional Help

I just started on Hamlet. Why? Because I have brain damage. This fact is pretty well established.

Anyways, Hamlet isn’t a very happy bloke. All he’s done so far is complain about how his uncle is a prick and talk to Horatio about dear dead daddy. There was also a cool metaphor about unweeded gardens, and legos. Danes love legos.

No, I made that up about the legos. But I think that if Hamlet had some legos, though, he’d be happy–because who doesn’t like legos?

(Hypothetical question: If you don’t like legos, or know someone else who doesn’t like legos, you can shove it up your bum.)

The other thing I think Hamlet lacks in his goal of not being a miserable dorkface is a girl. If he had a sweet cherry Danish, then he wouldn’t have to whine all the time about how his mommy doesn’t love him anymore. I mean, I’m just sayin’…

Then again (to paraphrase/rip-off John Green), the more I write this post, the more I think that I’m not talking to Hamlet, I’m talking to fifteen year old me. But not fifteen year old me, because I’m not fifteen. I’m talking to however old I am me, and I’m saying: You need a girl, and you need legos.

The only thing is, I already have a girl (although she couldn’t technically be considered a sweet cherry Danish), and I have a wagonload of legos, too. And those two things–but mainly the first one, in concert with large amounts of coffee, whiny Danes, and the theatre– make me happy. So what I’m going to do is: I’m going to shove my happiness up my pie-hole and smoke it, or whatever the kids do nowadays, and I suggest you do the same.

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